


Just When I Thought It Was All Coming Together

by Alex_deMorra (Ergo_Sum)



Series: Fence Sitter [7]
Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-14
Updated: 2016-10-14
Packaged: 2018-08-22 10:24:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8282498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ergo_Sum/pseuds/Alex_deMorra
Summary: Chapter 7: Fence SitterMicah's life is coming together nicely, or so he thinks. As he's getting ready to propose to his girlfriend of several years, he learns that he has managed to overlook some important details for sake of reaching his life goals.





	1. Chapter 1

I had the gall to believe that I had my shit together. This went on for several days before I discovered that a side effect of having self-identified as intelligent having a natural predilection towards contemplation is that I persuade myself to follow a set of apparent truths just as surely as I could convince a jury. And really, discovered wasn’t the most appropriate word. More like the process of its unveiling happened over several days.

It started at lunchtime on a Thursday.

Two carne aside burritos I stopped for on the way here burned through the foil and through the paper into my hand. In my other hand, I carried two glass bottles: one Tamarindo (for me) and Jamaica (for her). I set these down on the molded concrete picnic bench table, straddled the seat just next to her, and leaned in just far enough to meet her kiss.

The weather was indecent: sunny, in the high seventies, a light breeze came off of the harbor, wispy white clouds floated slowly across the sky. It was the kind of warm that seared the outermost layer of my dead skin and left the new, pink, healthy layer exposed to meet the world for the first time.

This part of our city is one that some called groomed. Others called it developed. Still, others called it gentrified. I didn’t call it anything; I just went there to eat lunch with my girl. The concrete table we sat at was surrounded by blue-green grass. Twenty yards in front of us was a walkway that guided pedestrians by city-funded sculptures that were carefully selected with guidance from board members of the Centro Cultural de la Raza, possibly to distract from the ongoing controversy surrounding the potential removal of Chicano Park located less than five miles away. The bridge, the downtown skyscrapers, the naval base, the sculptures, and until a few months ago, grey whales were all visible from this very spot.

In typical Jax style, her shoes were off, which freed up her toes to wiggle between the blades of grass that had been recently lopped into a rectangular shape. Sunlight refracted through her dark shades just enough for me to see that her eyes were smiling in the same way her mouth was.

“You look happy,” I greeted her and watched as she pulled out a burrito, poured on some red sauce and took her first greedy bite. I never got tired of the way in which she consumed everything with relish.

She hummed in agreement and twisted to face me while she pulled her feet up on the bench so that she could sit cross-legged. “I have news,” she said definitively, fidgeting with excitement. It could only be about school or her life as a new aunt. “But I’m nervous to say.”

School then.

“Who did you hear from?”

“Rice.”

She meant that she’d received an acceptance letter from Rice University in Houston, Texas. Fifteen hundred miles away. Where I knew no one. Not really. It was in a state whose ruling party championed conversion therapy and continued to fight the Supreme Court on their decision on _Lawrence v. Texas_. Not to mention their stance on _Roe v. Wade_. She was much more excited to hear from them than I was.

To be fair, I was the one who said I wanted to make a difference; Houston was a city that could use a lot of help. And advocacy programs are on the rise so there was something to start with. Plus good things happening with youth development in the Fifth Ward, including ongoing projects to get first generation kids to college.

Then again … guns.

Not to mention —

Jax interrupted my thought, “The thing we haven’t ever talked about is…Micah, if you had to choose between me and Danny…”

“Why would I ever have to choose between you and Danny? Danny’s my family.”

“I know but could you actually leave him?”

“I’m _with_ you, Jax, and we’re talking about getting married. So yeah, Danny means a lot to me and I hope he always will but neither he nor I imagined living together after that happened.”

“Still.” I sensed a touch of disappointment on the tail of that word. Or was it disbelief? When he and I finally got to some balancing point where he stopped blaming me for leaving him for a woman (which, for the record, only happened years after he broke up with me and his reasoning for breaking up with me was due to the possibility of that exact thing happening), she started in with this idea of competing with him. It was the one thing with either one of them where I felt like there was nothing I could say or do to help anyone feel like they’ve won.

I continued speaking and hoped to assuage her concerns, “Houston is not my favorite choice. But, I’m not going to unilaterally discount it. The letters are coming in, right? I’ll start putting feelers out in all the cities where your top choices are — the ones that aren’t here, I mean. In a few weeks, we’ll lay everything out based on where else you were accepted and we’ll make a decision based on what works for both of us.”

She raised her sunglasses so they perched on the top of her head. Her eyes glittered with worry and I could practically see the idea forming when it bubbled out of her mouth, “I miss my family.”

Which is an idea I suppose I could get behind if it made sense in our current situation, “Um, Jax — your family lives less than two hours away from where we are right now. We’re going to see them this weekend.”

“I know but they’re moving.”

“They are?”

“Dad’s been transferred back to Houston and I was thinking how nice it would be to live in the same area again.”

“When did you…why didn’t you tell me this was happening?”

“I didn’t want to say until it was confirmed. Besides, I’m telling you now so that you’ll know before we go see them for dinner,” she admitted.

This information started making some sense. From here, my job was to put it all together and confirm that I heard what she was telling me, “So, this makes Rice your top choice?”

“I think so,” her voice faltered and she dropped her gaze to her feet and slipped her shades back over her eyes. She knew how much I’d be giving up in order to make this happen for her.

“Then I’m willing to consider it,” I reasoned and she lit up. This didn’t signify how certain she was that I would likely go along with her decision. Or how true this was. If I was really trying to convince myself on either of these points, I failed, because both my heart and my mood plummeted.

“I might hate it there, Jax. Or I might not be able to find a job. If one of those happens, will you be open to one of the other schools that accepted you?”

“Of course,” Jax said and she grabbed my hand and squeezed it, and she willed her confidence to flow into me as if it were possible via absorption. “We’ll figure it out. Just you wait and see.”

“What about everything else?”

“Nothing has changed, Micah. We’re just focusing in on where the next step will take us, not what the next step is.”

“Sure, sure?”

“Totally sure.”

“Okay. I’ll talk to Danny after we see your folks on Saturday night.”

“You’ll be great, Micah. Everything is going to be great.”

In that moment, I believed her.


	2. Chapter 2

Things that turned my guts inside out:

1\. Sour milk.

2\. Poverty — especially the moral kind.

3\. Injuries in which skin is left hanging in ribbons.

4\. Heart-to-heart conversations with Jax’s father, AKA Mr. Atherton.

Tonight wasn’t the first time we met, nor was it the first time we had spoken privately. But it was the first time I had actively sought him out to do so.

He was the type of guy that could have featured in holiday print advertising for Macy’s department store and Fidelity banking. In many ways, he was all that I thought a guy could and should be. Successful. Rich. Tall. Handsome. Fit. Masculine. He had a preposterous understanding of all matters regarding social etiquette. Plus, he did all the things (like golf) and had all the things (like a BMW 6-series) and was all the things (founding CTO) that I didn’t, hadn’t, and wasn’t.

When it came to him, I was equal parts jealous and intimidated.

So, it was no surprise that if I had the choice between spending quality time with this guy and getting a root canal, I might choose the latter — even with insufficient levels of anesthesia. This probably had something to do with his perception of me (or at least my perception of his perception of me) and of how I remained slightly and consistently off the mark. _The mark_ described as that mysterious target that, like porn, was something that people recognized when they saw it and, at the same time, was specific to each person’s preferences. All this to say I wasn’t exactly tailored to Mr. Atherton’s specifications.

Take my career choice, for example.

I recently passed the bar and became officially certified to tack an Esq. behind my name on a business card. Seriously, wasn’t that was guys wanted for their daughters -- lawyers, doctors, and accountants? That’s not why I did it. I wouldn’t. Not for that. But as a side benefit, I had assumed it would give me a free pass or, at least, a little favoritism.

What I didn’t foresee was that my specialization in public interest law, with a specific interest in child advocacy, would be the cause for his consternation. It was explained, casually and incidentally as if the choice had been trivial, that had I specialized in corporate law, I could have made a real difference.

Similarly, we spoke of religion.

Once.

I had no need to relive that discussion again. Ever.

What was the rule again? Don’t talk politics or religion or money. Thank god I learned my lesson before I brought up the third one. Or, you know, others.

The fact that the two of us had different opinions on just about everything didn’t faze me. The fact that the one thing we had in common meant everything to each of us? Yeah, that was daunting. In addition, when I considered that one thing we shared was the reason I sought him out for a private discussion? That was downright frightening.

I had this plan to wait until after dinner. But I was impatient. And nervous. Besides, when Jax had disappeared into the kitchen with her mom her new baby niece, her brothers and their respective wives, I took it as a sign that her dad and I should talk sooner rather than later. If I waited longer, I could chicken out. Or worse. In fact, it was entirely possible that I was going to spontaneously burst into flames before I approached the question of interest.

The question in question was about a ring.

A vintage one. It was from the Art Deco period (her favorite) and had a one karat round diamond bordered in in opals (our birthstone). The gemstones sat in an intricate setting of rose gold that may have been diminutive but had already lasted one lifetime and would certainly last for several more. 

I wanted the ring even before I knew its story. This particular ring had been given by one man to one woman at the start of a long and happy life together. The jeweler had known them personally and had a handful of photos that spanned the eight decades they had spent together. The last one in the book showed them dancing, dressed up but in sensible shoes, both hunched and withered with their cheeks pressed together and their eyes closed and their lips stretched into thin, happy arcs.

That’s what I wanted and I wanted it with Jax. And Jax wanted it with me.

The ring itself wasn’t burning a hole in my pocket but the cashier’s check to pay for it was. I had been waiting for the day when I finished school, got my license, had a practice I was working for and could pay in cash for the ring. Yesterday I got paid. Today I went to the bank. Tonight, I was supposed to ask for his blessing.

And I was prepared.

I read articles.

Seriously, I needed help to figure out what to do and what to say and — this was absolutely true — I picked up a copy of Esquire magazine some months ago because one of the bylines was about all the things that have gone right or gone wrong for guys who popped the question.

The first thing was to make sure she would actually say yes. So for months, Jax and I talked about our future: our desires, our goals, what we wanted from each other and a marriage, our shared preference not to have kids, how we thought about money. There was this question of school and decisions to make about where to live. Everything.

Aside from this new development of an imminent move to Houston, were on the same page. Even this, we talked about. It was out on the table and it was something we could figure out. So, for all practical purposes…

Check.

Next step involved getting Mr. Atherton alone for a private discussion.

Check.

He had a study — a real one with dark wood, leather, and desk lamps — and we were in it. I had my speech ready and I laid it on him. I told him how much I loved Jax. Of how committed I was to her. Of how I waited until I was financially secure (or at least well on the way) before taking this next step. I wanted to prove to him that I could always take care of her.

Check.

Then, I pulled out my phone and showed him a picture of the ring and of the check in my pocket and of my appointment to collect it tomorrow while Jax was still here spending time with the family. I was seriously serious about this. Beyond serious.

Check.

Finally, and with streams of sweat running down my back, I asked him for his blessing to marry his daughter.

Only to receive…deathly silence.

An eternity of it.

“Sir?”

He walked over to his stash of booze. These were the bottles I had noticed over the past several years whose levels lowered each month, and once in a while, refilled, despite never seeing him touch the stuff. He selected two cut-crystal tumblers and poured an inch of twenty-one-year-old single malt scotch into each one. When one was extended to me, I walked over and took it from him. When he sat down in his black leather armchair, I sat in the identical one across from him. And when he looked at me with the brown eyes that acted like the wall, I looked at him but with something far more penetrable.

This was not going to end well.

The movement of the mechanisms in his throat was clearly audible as he swallowed. He leaned back in his chair in something approximating a comfortable position; for even I could tell that he wasn’t actually comfortable. It was in the guarded way he crossed his legs and how he peered into his whiskey just a little too long before he settled in for a brief session on what was doubtlessly going to be for my benefit and education.

“I know what I’m supposed to say,” he stopped and sighed. His eyes shifted to something behind me before he returned them to mine. He went on, “Believe it or not, I would really like to say yes.”

I started searching for the inevitable _but_.

My mind raced. Was it something I said? Could I still fix whatever I did wrong? Was there something so fundamental about _me_ that I would never be good enough. I felt my ribs constrict and forced them open with a deep inhale. I would - and I could - wait for whatever he was going to say.

First, he placated, “There is no doubt in my mind that you love my daughter and that you would do anything within your power to make her happy. Regardless of where you and I have our differences, those two things were all could want for my daughter.”

Then he recanted, “I’ll be honest, Micah. When I heard of your background, I was concerned about whether you’d be able to be a good husband or, if it came to pass, a good father. But you’ve been coming here for quite some time now and you’ve slowly become part of our family. You’ve been respectful, you’ve participated, you’ve been a good partner for Jen…Jax…I still have a hard time calling her that.”

I was confused.

Where was the _but_?

All of this sounded good. However, there was something in his posture, his demeanor. An indifference, perhaps? A coldness that comes with creating distance.

Finally, he came out with it, “If all else was equal, I would happily give my blessing and pay for a wedding and walk her down the aisle and give her away. But…”

There it was.

“But?”

“For the past few weeks, my wife and I have been speaking with our daughter about going to graduate school. I know you know this just as I know you helped her with applications and research. You may or may not know all the places that she’s been accepted to.”

Acid started to make my stomach eat itself from the inside. I knew of several letters but not so many as to indicate the quantity he implied. There was no question she was going to get several acceptances. In addition to Houston, we’d also considered moving to Chicago or Seattle. I secretly hoped it was possible to remain where we were. I was only waiting for the remaining letters to arrive before I began my job search. We had discussed all of it. I was on board for all of it.

“The thing is, Micah, for all that I know the two of you have been planning this together, I haven’t once heard her speak of you in a way that suggests that she’s thinking of you with the same consideration that you’ve been thinking of her.”

He continued apologetically, “I am sorry to say this because I think you’ve been good for her. However, as things stand, I don’t approve of a marriage between you. Not because of who she is. Not because of who you are. But from my experience, it seems that that the two of you aren’t as close as you think you are and these are not conditions for a lasting marriage. I’m sorry.”

The blood sunk from my face, and then my body, into the carpet, through the floor, past the foundations, and into the deep, cold earth where it collected never to be used again.

The worst part of everything that passed between us was his sincerity. Within that room and the space between us, he cared about me more than I had ever expected and was advising me in the same way he would have advised Jax or either of his sons. And I could tell it was good advice.

I hated him for that.

Why couldn’t he have simply condemned me or laid into me or blamed me for not being better than I was? I have made a lifetime out of making myself better. Out of rising up and surprising people with how I’ve transformed, how I’ve surpassed expectations. If he had just told me that I wasn’t good enough, I could have done something to change his mind.

But now, it’s out there. I’ve heard what he had to say and no matter how badly I want to, I can’t make him take it back.

But he wasn’t taking it back.

He had one more gift to give me — certainty. It took form when he told me, “I suspect, Micah, that you already knew this. If you didn’t, that ring would already be in your pocket. Not just the means to pay for it.”

So there I was. Fully exsanguinated: It was Mr. Atherton in the study with veracity.

Mrs. Atherton passed through the doorway to let us know that dinner was ready. Her husband stood gracefully, wrapped his free arm around her waist and adored her with an expression. They walked out but they could have waltzed.

Did I believe him?

No.

He was wrong.

It was probable that he had some information that I didn’t but he didn’t know everything. Clearly, he didn’t appreciate how much Jax and I really fit together. She was merely distracted by this big decision.

Next week, after she had a few more days to process all of the input from her family, she and I would talk again and start making more solid plans based on what we want. It was fine. He simply misunderstood the situation.

I made my way to the dining room where Jax was already sitting in middle of one side of the extended dining room table. To her right was the high chair holding her niece and in her right hand was a baby spoon covered in the same orange slop that was all over the face of the infant she attempted to feed.

After greeting her younger brother Jeff with half a hug and an arm slap, and her older brother Brian with a bone-crunching handshake, I sat in the empty chair to Jax’s left and expressed my appreciation when Brian’s elegant wife Deb handed me a plate heaving with food. As usual, there was plenty to go around: extra veg and potatoes, bread and butter, salt and pepper, and a water jug on the table.

I declined the wine and caught up with the discussion, which transitioned to our plans for the near future. “We’ve just started talking about it,” Jax exclaimed and leaned into me briefly, “but I got an acceptance letter for Rice!”

Her mom beamed.

“Way to go Jax. That was your top choice wasn’t it?” congratulated Jeff.

Top choice? I thought it was her third. _You don’t know her as well as you think you do._

Her mom flicked her eyes over to me and hinted, “Sweetie, I just had a great idea!” I had the distinct impression that this was neither an idea made up on the fly nor the first time Jax would hear it. “Your dad and I are moving in just a few weeks time. Why don’t we figure out how to get all of your things up here so that we can pick up your moving expenses? Then, you can come out early and have plenty of time to find a place to live in. Of course, Micah can come, too.”

Jax flashed a glance at me before answering enthusiastically, “That’s so generous, mom. It would save us a load of money. Can I let you know next week?”

They continued discussing plans. She had already made up her mind, and apparently mine as well. Her dad was right. None of it was about me. Not about where I could work, not about where we’d live, not about the things we’d do together.

“You’re quiet tonight,” Jeff mentioned under his breath.

“Nah. I’m always quiet. This is Jax’s night. I’m proud of her.”

“Aw, baby. Thanks!” She squeezed my thigh and returned to continue making plans with the Houston clan, which was everyone at the table beside me and Jeff.

Someone brought up dessert and, though I knew it was rude, I made my excuse to leave, “I hope you don’t mind but I need to start driving south so I can get home at a decent hour. I have a commitment first thing tomorrow.”

“On a Sunday?” Mrs. Atherton’s protest was part bemused, part aghast. Mr. Atherton said nothing. Jax was perplexed. “You’re not staying?”

“Not this time. Call me in a few days and I can come get you, okay?”

“Yeah, okay,” she uttered. Her answer was both dubious and quieter than anything she had said during dinner.

I said my goodbye’s and, because each consecutive second I remained there was offensive, I left as quickly as possible.

Jeff caught up to me while I unlocked my car. He asked, “What just happened?”

“I need to go. Sorry if it looks like I’m being a dick but…I really…”

His face was blank aside from his raised and concerned eyebrows. “Is this because she wants to go to Houston?”

An hour ago, I wouldn’t have told him before her but things had changed, “No. I would have gone to Houston. You know that. It’s because she doesn’t care whether I want to be there or not.” I swallowed in a hard gulp and I made an effort not to look at him and surveyed the tidy street around us.

When I pulled up on the door handle and he pressed against on the frame before I could open it. “You know how to reach me, right?” He paused and then leaned in for a real hug. A full body one. Not like the one we shared before dinner. He assured me that he wanted to remain in touch, “You’ve been a good friend, Micah. I don’t want to lose that. So, if I call you, promise you’ll pick up. Okay?”

I nodded and got in the car feeling numb and detached. Jeff remained on the sidewalk as I drove away.

The drive was a blur. I intended to go home but I found myself in front of Jax’s soon-to-be-vacant cottage. When I walked in, I saw breakfasts of oatmeal and blueberry pancakes, study sessions, the day we spent painting ceramic pots for her new succulents, painting each other’s toes, evidence of thrift store splurges. I smelled lemongrass, curry powder, and nettle tea.

I was on automatic pilot and gathered up the few clothes I had in her closet and in my drawer, which was the bottom left of her six-drawer dresser. I grabbed my shampoo, toothbrush, shaving cream, and deodorant. I pulled out the three bottles of beer that I loved and she hated. But I left the spices and the music and the dreamcatcher that had all of her favorite colors and the keys to her front door.

Something I should have left but didn’t was a note. I wanted to. I just couldn’t think of anything to say.


	3. Chapter 3

It hurt.

It hurt when I went to bed. It hurt all night. And it hurt when I woke up the next morning. I wished that was all I had to say but it wasn’t. I needed it to hurt more. Whether the reason for this was for self-destruction or merely to distract myself from my more honest pain, I didn’t know. All I knew was that whatever I was feeling, it wasn’t enough.

And I didn’t know what to do about it.

I was never one for self-harm and I didn’t know why. After all, I was kind of the type. Depression, self-loathing, my need for punishment. When I got low, I wanted to go lower. For some reason, I never did. In fact, the only time I had ever considered hurting myself on purpose, there were enough people around to do the job for me. I never even got myself drunk in order to dull the pain.

Then, for a long time, I hadn’t even thought about it. Which, I suppose, meant that I had been content. And I have been. Had been. Was.

The duffle bag sat open on my bed, still full with my things that not twelve hours ago had lived with Jax. The bank check rested along the open teeth of the zipper with its future having already been flipped from getting delivered to the jewelers this afternoon to getting redeposited at my bank tomorrow at lunchtime.

He was right about Jax. Including the part where if I had just been looking a little harder, if I had just been a bit more observant, I would have noticed that she already started moving on. Just because I didn’t see it and just because she didn’t say it didn’t mean it was any less true. Now that I saw it, I knew it, and it wasn’t the speculative sort of knowing that came with the opportunity of changing anything by talking through it.

I needed to get the hell out of my head. To find something I could do.

Laundry.

It wasn’t just a good idea. More like it was something I was capable of. The basket was half empty. Less than that if I included the clothes I slept in after I got home last night. Maybe there was more around the house? I picked up the basket, gathered the wet towels from the bathroom, peeked in Danny’s room to collect the few items he dropped on the floor before he left for his opening shift at the coffee shop down the hill.

The wooden stairs creaked as I descended from our front door toward the carport in a daze. Stupefied and oddly functional, I dumped our clothes between a drum and an agitator, scooped out a level cup of white powder to sprinkle over said clothes, and pressed a selection of buttons on the control panel before I finally pushed the one that said _start_. While I did this, my brain was filled with dark and gloom, the endlessness that prevented closure and I was just wondering whether there was a commercial opportunity available to me should I pursue writing a how-to-guide for nihilistic laundry when I noticed a presence on my arm. A whisper. It was so light as to be a mere suggestion of being touched. So light, in fact, that I hardly believed my nervous system could be that sensitive.

But it was. For, on my arm was a shiny, black spider that was almost as long as my thumb. Its thorax was orbed and of a size and shape that was out of harmony with the rest of its body. One of its legs was gracefully extended back toward the green cup in my hand that normally lived inside the open box of laundry soap.

She danced delicately along the skin stretched over the inside of my forearm, which I held perpendicular to my body and my elbow bent at ninety degrees and my fingers pinching a bright green plastic handle optimistically held like a bucket with its hollow aimed at the ceiling and ready to carry an arachnid passenger to somewhere we would both be safer.

It was obviously it was a _she_ based on the two red triangles on her belly. The triangles in which one apex gently kissed the other and, had they been a little bit closer, would have formed that characteristic hourglass shape decried by concerned guardians and newsreaders all over the southwest.

My first black widow spider. She was not at all what I expected her to be. She was beautiful and graceful and calm and — dare I say it — sweet. She tumbled off my arm, caught herself with a thread, and crawled up the silk to climb back on to me. She wrapped her legs around my fingers and continued moving like a ballerina with quick, sure steps.

I didn’t know what made me do what I did next.

Perhaps I channeled Cleopatra moments before she met with an asp. Not that I needed help. I already had a history as a victim that forced their own assault. Though I had no desire to traumatize the gorgeous little spider, I was strangely driven to tip my finger onto her thorax in order to press her against me. Was it egotistic to think I felt her panic — to imagine that she didn’t want to bite me? It touched me to watch as she pressed back in an effort to free herself.

I knew the feeling. Still, I insisted. She didn’t have a choice, so she did as I asked. And when she did it, it barely registered. Certainly not as much as a bee sting would have. I released her immediately and watched her scamper over the green plastic cup, where she proceeded to float down to the cover of the washing machine and run over the control panel and into the space behind it where I could no longer get at her.

I was left with her memory and two red holes that were a quarter of an inch apart from each other. The thought that passed through my mind was _that wasn’t so bad._ However, those two marks started to sting a bit more.

A thought entered my mind _what have I just done?_ By the time I got upstairs, my hand throbbed. Shortly after this, the throbbing evened out and gave way to heat and a pressure, which became more intense as my skin stretched with edema.

_Maybe this wasn’t going to be as easy as it first seemed._

Yet, I was hardly concerned. People don’t die from black widows unless they are very young, elderly, infirm, or unlucky. I was none of those things. Except for the last. I was sometimes unlucky. Not this time, though. I could tell.

I consulted the internet. It advised me to wash thoroughly with warm, soapy water and to cycle ice packs every five to ten minutes.

Fine. No problem.

There was nothing to stop me going about my day, chock full as it was with a future of having hung up our washing to dry and of not going to the jewelers. Halfway through that first (and only) chore, warmth embraced my chest, stomach, and diaphragm. Well, it started as warmth. By the time I hung the last pair of socks, I was sweating.

Several hours later, while I attempted to read a case file, the heat turned into cramping and I started to think that it might be wise to go to the hospital.

But I didn’t go.

I stayed.

I stayed in part because I didn’t know how I would drive there while I was so nauseous.

But really, I stayed because I finally felt the pain I craved when I woke up this morning. Waves of it. The spasms radiating from my chest and along my legs left me incapacitated. I was sweating profusely and uncontrollably. I was on fire and absolutely freezing and I wanted to die and I wanted to live and I knew that on the other side of this, I would be utterly transformed.

This was exactly what I wanted — a baptism.

I had read before about how people magically got answers to things beyond their own comprehension. Some native cultures within the Americas created sacred spaces with chemical dreams by taking peyote or ayahuasca. Others established Sun Dances and Vision Quests. Edgy psychologist types used LSD or holotropic breathing. Less edgy ones went with lucid dreaming or hypnotherapy.

But this was mine. A gift from my little spider to burn the monster I’ve been carrying with me. And as I shivered and twitched and shook as my body responded to the poison, the blood supply from the _me_ I imagined myself to be and the _me_ I was desperately afraid of, cauterized, ensuring that I could be rid of it completely and absolutely. It wasn’t a cure. It wasn’t a vaccine. It wasn’t even a miscarriage that I had wanted for decades.

It was a vanquishing.

Now I know why I wanted — no, needed —this. Because if I could get this close to death without dying, if I could experience a level of pain that made me want to tear my skin off, nothing else could take me down, do me in, or defeat me in any way.

This thing about not seeing the truth became so small that I could pick it up between my thumb and forefinger to examine it. I was like King Fucking Kong who dropped an itty-bitty think like heartbreak off the Empire State Building.

It no longer registered.

Nothing registered.

Except my thirst.

I was so thirsty.

Even that I hardly cared about. Nor did I care that the sun had swept across my window. What did I care if it was the afternoon or if it would soon be night or in just a little while longer yet another sunrise and another day and another set of people with problems that I may or may not be able to solve?

I was in absolute, beautiful fucking agony and while I was in that space, I indulged myself with thoughts of Jax. Amazing, smart, sexy Jax who spent several years with me before moving away. Of course, that was the only way it could have gone. I hadn’t imagined our lives together after this point. I just wanted it and told myself that I could see it. That it was destined. I had found the ring and had this plan for how everything was going to be perfect but I couldn’t imagine us sitting at the same table again with her studying and me working, with us talking about our dreams and impossible possibilities. With us getting old together.

And as my biceps curls in and my hands snarled in tight, witchy, painful fists, I could finally admit that more than missing out on _her_ , I was afraid of missing out on the opportunity to have a normal looking life. Of being a guy married to a girl, which for all practical purposes would have meant I could have passed as straight. Without having to explain anything to anybody and for once — for once — letting this normalcy invite acceptance and forgiveness into my life from my birth family — but also from others — which would never happen otherwise.

That’s how much I wanted to fit in.

And for people I didn’t even like.

An acute sense of loss washed over me. My chest was in a vise whose spiral got longer and longer as the clamps got tighter and tighter. I couldn’t discern whether this was due to emotional distress or because my little spider’s venom had finally reached my heart. I couldn’t breathe.

Despite not being able to get oxygen inside me, I started laughing.

I was crying.

I gulped for air.

I laughed again because I was in the worst pain I’d ever been in my entire life. Oh god, oh fuck, it hurt.

Then.

All of a sudden.

Danny was there.

He was in front of me and he looked concerned. “Micah, are you high?”

I tried to answer. My words kept slurring. I didn’t even know what I was trying to say. But I never was alone with Danny. I was never lonely. He made everything better. He saved me. My guardian angel.

He tried to get me up. I fell down.

The world went black.

I woke up in the back of a car I didn’t recognize.

The world went black.

I woke up under bright lights. A doctor prodded me. I stuck my hand up to show him my swollen hand. “Did you fall and injure yourself?”

I shook my head and attempted to speak.

“Did you take something?”

Again, I shook my head. “Black widow,” I slurred, the sound of it coming out like _Blaaah-laow,_ which even I didn’t recognize. I tried again, “Bite.” And that time it sounded a bit more like it was supposed to.

They still didn’t understand.

All of my limbs were shaking, drenched in sweat. My tongue was too big for my mouth. Air squeaked in and out of me in wheezes.

Someone gave me a shot of something that provided a relief I wasn’t ready for. The heat turned down and the cramps relaxed but my mumbling got no better. In fact, I continued to blather at a constant rate, unaware of whether anything I said was coherent. The doctor spoke with Danny, who signed papers attached to a plastic clipboard.

Soon, I was in a wheelchair.

Soon, I was in the backseat of another car I didn’t recognize.

Soon, I was being hoisted up our staircase with Danny under one arm and another guy under the other.

Soon, I was back in bed.

The next few days was a haze of excruciating pain and weird dreams and conversations that may or may not have happened. Eventually, I was aware of being alert and of that Danny was sitting in a kitchen chair that he had pulled into my bedroom. He observed me without speaking and he looked at me strangely, as if he wasn’t sure whether he could recognize me or not.

The first thing he said was, “You and I have a few things to talk about.”

“Okay,” I croaked. Then I gasped as my hand went into another spasm. “What do you want to talk about?”

He handed me a cup of water. When my hand couldn’t support it, he scooted closer and brought the straw to my lips so I could drink. “You talked a lot of bullshit while you were out of it. You know that?”

I suppose I did but about what?

His eyes were so deep, dark blue. Cool and soothing. Just like how I imagined a lagoon would feel just after I jumped in. It finally occurred to me that he was waiting for my response. “What did I say?”

“You don’t know?”

“No clue.”

“Did you really want to die?”

“Do you have any idea how much pain I was in?” It wasn’t fair to answer a question with a question but I saw that look in his eyes and as much as I remember how I wanted to put myself through something yesterday, putting him through something was not part of that.

“So, I’m supposed to believe that you breaking up with Jax had nothing to do with your getting bit?”

“We haven’t officially broken up yet.”

“Yeah, and that _officially_ didn’t answer my question.”

“I know. Sorry. The spider was in the laundry detergent and I never threw it out. Did you go look?”

He left.

I heard him stomping out the door and down the steps. There was a crash and a scrape of metal against the cement. The dad from the family that lived in the house in front of ours was talking to Danny and shouted over to his wife to keep the kids away.

I guess they found her.

I called into work and learned that Danny had been keeping them up to date. Then, soaked my hand in Epsom salt and thought about what I could tell Danny that wasn’t a lie. I never lied to him and I wasn’t going to start now. Ever. About anything.

But that meant that I couldn’t lie to myself either and I really didn’t know which was up right now.

Time was up.

He was coming back up the stairs.

I asked him, “What’d you find?”

“A whole damn camp. Twenty, easy. And a web in the laundry box with three spiky balls that I presume were eggs.”

“What’d you do?”

“Killed ‘em.” He stopped and pursed his lips. When he started speaking again, his voice quavered, “Did you mean it?”

“I don’t know exactly what I said.”

“You said you loved me.”

“Danny, of course, I love you.”

“Not like that.”

All this time, I’ve been playing it off. Yeah, we were friends. Yeah, we were family. But also. “I’ve always loved you. Always. I never stopped.”

He pulled the cashier’s check out of my bag. The one meant for an engagement ring that was not going to be purchased “And this?”

“Not going to happen. Ever.”

“But you’re still…”

“Bi? Yup. I’ve always been and I’ll always be and I get that you think that means we can’t be together. But I don’t agree. And I never have. And all this stuff we’ve created, all these rules we have about living together and having our love lives away from our home are all just ways of being together and not being together.”

I’ve said this before.

He’s heard this before.

“You were going to leave,” he accused.

Rightfully so.

I was.

I thought about it. I made plans to do it. “But I didn’t.”

“You’re going to end me. You know that?”

It’s a good thing that I was invincible. Otherwise, I’d crumple. My eyes could have watered up. I might have crossed my arms over my chest. My lower lip would have quivered. I might have turned red with emotion. Just like he was. “I’m not going to end you.”

“I’m still with Richard.”

“I know.”

“I can’t…”

“You don’t have to.”

I knew we weren’t done. He knew I loved him. I knew he loved me.

He was with Richard. So what? He used to be with Tony. I used to be with Jax, who less than a week ago asked me, _Micah, if you had to choose between me and Danny?_

I would never not choose him.

I would never make him choose.

We weren’t like that. It may not be _our_ time in that way. Maybe, it never would be again. At the same time, I knew in my heart that it was just as true that it was always our time.

And it always would be.


End file.
